


In From The Rain

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: Vortex is having a shit day, and the one person who can make it better hasn't come home.Set in naboru's Succubus AU before Blast Off finds out what Vortex is.Contains: self harm, mentions of violence and OC death, energy-vampirism, dark themes aplenty.





	In From The Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naboru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboru/gifts).



The first drop of acid rain fell as Vortex tumbled from the sky, spinning from alt mode to land in a crouch on the path to Blast Off's palace. He sprang up, sprinting to the covered doorway as the sky split open and the rain roared. He mashed the buzzer, straining to hear any movement from inside.

The porch was deep, but not quite deep enough. He drew his rotors in, and leaned on the wall. The rain fell with ferocity. It splashed up from the ground to spatter his legs, and gathered in large drips to fall on the tip of the one rotor he couldn't quite tuck in with him. It stung, and he huffed and hit the buzzer again.

Blast Off's place wasn't really a palace, but for Kaon it was palatial. The end of a rare row of low-rise homes, its restrained planes and mix of metals gleamed in the neon street lights. Half buried in the crest of a hill, it still had height, and its three storeys weren't just the end of a row of houses, they were architecture.

A noise made Vortex draw back in hope, picturing the door swinging open, the shuttle coming to greet him, but it was just the grounder downstairs, Blast Off's tenant. Vortex didn't know her name; another veteran. Like Onslaught. Like Brawl. Vortex listened harder, but aside from the careful sounds of the tenant closing her storm shutters, there was nothing.

Blast Off's shutters were already closed, or Vortex might have boosted himself to the balcony and banged on the screen doors. He could always bang on the rainproof covers, but Blast Off wouldn't be able to see it was him. He pushed the buzzer again. Still nothing.

Maybe the shuttle wasn't home. A gust spattered him with rain, and Vortex swore. The sting lasted longer than the burns, and he huddled next to the door, and tried to forget the past two days.

It wasn't easy.

It would have been easier if Blast Off was home. If he'd come to the door already. They could have said a few words, and Blast Off would have let him in, and Vortex would be out of the rain and his paint wouldn't be hissing and his frame wouldn't be sore. And maybe, just maybe there'd be a cube of something triple distilled and extremely strong, and he could feel warm inside for just a little while.

The rain was cold. The air was cold. Vortex was cold, although he shouldn't have been. He'd eaten, but it was bitter, and damn it he wasn't going to think about that. He mashed the buzzer again, although he knew by now the shuttle wasn't in. Maybe the tenant would come up to see what all the fuss was about, maybe she'd let him sit at hers until Blast Off came home.

He shivered, and pressed himself to the door. That was a bad idea. It was a time for bad ideas.

Onslaught should never have sent him.

Vortex didn't know who he should have sent. Brawl, maybe. He could have blown the whole place up. But there had been intel. There was always intel. Vortex had loaded it all onto a chip and left it in one of the secure boxes back at HQ. It didn't stop the episode rolling around his head though. Things he should have done, ways he could have got through faster, quieter. He cringed as though the tasers had left their hooks in him, as though the burning dripping hole in his abdomen had never closed up.

He rubbed his shoulder, where the metal was smooth and grey, where there wasn't even a dent from the electro-prod. He'd come out of it fine, he always did. Onslaught's enemies were dead, the intel secured. He'd fed because he had to, because he couldn't stop himself, didn't want to stop himself, and it was like he was two people, one luring, tempting, feeding, and one watching, sick and scared and so very very angry.

Snarling, he glared at the buzzer. The rain fell faster, harder, a puddle seeping into the porch. Sneering at it, Vortex leaned on the wall. He dimmed his optics, feeling the acid eat into his paint, listening to the pounding of the storm, shuddering each time the gale spattered him, making his amour hiss and steam.

He should have just killed them. He shouldn't have made them want him, made them love him. He shouldn't have lured the one into a stupor, made them lay there warm and solid while the other's frame cooled. He shouldn't have taken them both, but they were small, he he had been so so hungry.

He'd made it look like any other execution. Innards removed, bodies strung up, daubed with the glyphs of a rival gang. Nothing to lead anyone back to Onslaught. Nothing to show what Vortex had done.

How he had done it.

He transformed his fingers, compulsive, a distraction from the rain and the ever-present wet sting. Claws, then blunt, then claws, they snicked with each transformation. He wanted to gouge out the lock, to punch the door until it gave and at least then he'd be inside. He could always go home. The storm would hurt, but it wouldn't stop him, couldn't stop him.

A weather drone flew by, high overhead, but the Kaon night was otherwise empty. Quiet. Vortex didn't like it quiet. He watched the drone until its lights passed out of sight. A few grounders roared past on the otherwise-empty highway, one of them swathed in sheeting, the other looking rich, sleek, probably covered in the same weatherproofing as the building.

The grounder who'd attacked him had been rich, sleek. Bright and gaudy, the tasers had been integrated into his arms, the prod an attachment at his hip. He'd had a smug look, sneering, haughty, like he thought he was above it all, like he thought he could take Vortex down from a distance.

The rumours clearly hadn't reached him.

A clattering sounded, and Vortex listened a while before he realised it was his rotors. He tried to draw them in, the tip of one steaming, but the porch hadn't got any deeper.

He got the urge to scratch the walls, just for something to do. The sound, the feeling, it could help. But they were Blast Off's walls; it was Blast Off's home. He couldn't do that, couldn't... He tapped his foot, but it wasn't enough, and he drew his claws across his armour, watching the paint split, watching it move like a liquid, watching the narrow little channels close again.

Shouldn't do that, but it was a distraction. A good distraction. No-one would know.

It would have been the worst time for Blast Off to show up, striding through the rain as though it was nothing. Shrugging it off. He'd need to shower before it began to eat through his finish, but it was a finish that could withstand atmospheric re-entry, that could survive the perils of space.

But Blast Off didn't loom through the downpour, asking inconvenient questions, glaring at the marks Vortex was making in his own paint. Vortex sniffed.

He could have called him. The shuttle was only one quick comm away. But what if he didn't answer? What if he'd been called off-world and hadn't had time to say? What if he wasn't coming back for orns and orns, and... Vortex shook himself. Better to wait out the storm, assume Blast Off was coming home, or he was already home and asleep and he'd wake up at any time and see Vortex lurking on his security feed and come let him in.

He didn't have any travel scheduled. Vortex had checked. Blast Off was meant to be home. 

Slumping, Vortex slid a little way down the wall. He tried to wedge himself in the corner, his head against the door, one foot braced on the opposite wall. The little niche of the porch was enough to keep the worst of the weather off, and he closed his vents against the stench of the acid reacting with his paint.

His gaze drifted, pulled by the storm. It looked like a painting, the floodlights of the Kaon-Polyhex freeway, the little scatter of pinpricks like stars, the heart of this little district on the edge of the city. The closest buildings were dark, none of their warm orange glow escaping from the edges of their storm barriers, only the sulfur yellow or the cool blue of security lights on the outsides of buildings, in the deserted entryways.

Vortex was the only one waiting in a porch. He should go home, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He'd stopped scratching, and he didn't know how long ago. His paint was perfect again, except where the rain still got to it. He put out feelers for the datanet, and found a signal. It logged him in quickly, and he pulled up his account, all the entertainment packages, the library service, the vid store. Nothing appealed. He checked his mail - a 'well done' from Onslaught, a reminder that his energy bill was due. He laughed despite himself, and the flashback kicked him square in the core, the shiny smug fragger laughing, the energy crackling at the end of the prod, arcing, grounding. Vortex dug his claws into his thigh, deeper than he planned, and hissed, pulling them out, scrabbling for a cloth to wipe up the welling energon. He didn't want to drip in Blast Off's doorway. He didn't want to be dirty, or rain-eaten, or streaked with soot.

He wiped his claws, shoving the cloth back in the compartment on his arm, and tried to make himself relax. What was it he was meant to do at times like this? Live in the moment, was it? Feel the stimulus, experience the emotion? No judgement, no reaction?

He came close to leaving. The storm wouldn't give him time to think. He could race the wind, battle the weather, get himself home where he could shower and... And?

And nothing. He'd just lay there, awake, thinking, hour after hour until the storm had passed and Onslaught wanted him for the debrief, and he'd be tired and cranky, and who might he hurt if he was in that mood? Who might he affect?

And if some miracle happened and he slept, what then? Another round of nightmares? Another vile spat of memory rising up to swallow him?

Whatever happened, he wouldn't rest.

Couldn't rest.

He made himself start a feed in his HUD. A show, any show. A documentary. Something about energon mining. He didn't care. He made himself watch it, his fingers turning to claws, turning to fingers again.

* * *

It was gone midnight when Blast Off finally got off the private hire shuttle-bus, and stomped down the path to his house in the rain. Thank goodness he'd thought to put the shutters up before he left; Kaon didn't often experience weather, but when it did it was like the rest of the city: dirty, violent, and went on for far longer than any sane person could want.

There was someone in his doorway.

He slowed, making a scan, then sighed and picked up his pace again. Vortex. It had to be Vortex. The rotary was dozing, his visor flickering with the evidence of an entertainment feed.

He clearly hadn't been entertained. He was groggy, his paint streaked and bubbling, his optics dim. He looked up as Blast Off approached, and his optics brightened.

"Don't say anything," Blast Off told him. "It's late, I'm tired." He flickered his energy field over the lock, and Vortex staggered to his feet, leaning in towards his arm as though magnetised. Blast Off huffed, letting the door open. Vortex stumbled inside, and leaned on the wall.

After a moment he shut off the feed, his visor quitting that telltale flicker.

"Did something happen?" Blast Off asked, and Vortex looked at him.

"Something," he said, and shrugged.

"You don't look well."

He shrugged again, and pulled a pink-streaked cloth out of his arm to catch the drips from his rotors.

"Don't use that, it's dirty." Blast Off said, and there was a flash of something in in Vortex's optics, something odd. But then it was gone and he was trying to stuff the cloth back in again. "Come on." Blast Off was tired, but it could wait. "Was that your energon?"

Vortex nodded.

"Are you injured?"

The rotary gave him a curious look. "Not any more," he said quietly.

"You need a shower."

"Yeah."

The damaged paint was shifting, re-forming even as Blast Off watched, but the sheen of acid was everywhere, and for every welt that healed another was sizzling open. Blast Off summoned one of the drones, and waited as it lay a path of disposable matting between the door and the shower. Vortex walked like he was already asleep, leaning in to Blast Off - but when didn't he? His energy field held close, tight. He didn't flare it when Blast Off put him under the shower, or when Blast Off decided he was tired enough to get himself clean at the same time. Vortex just leaned against the shower wall, staring at nothing, letting the water run over him.

"What did you come here for?" Blast Off asked, yawning as the last of the soap trickled away and the dryers kicked in. He tugged Vortex into the warmer air, and wasn't surprised to be the next thing Vortex leaned against.

"Nothing," he replied.

"You didn't want to interface?"

Vortex shook his head. His energy field gave a gentle flicker, but it was hardly seductive. "Recharge?" he said, and it was less a suggestion than it was a request.

Blast Off rolled his optics. "You'll need to stand up, if I move you'll fall."

Shaking his head, Vortex pressed closer. "Don't want to move," he said, but he clearly did. Or at least, he wanted to be on the recharge platform without having made the effort to traverse the intervening space. Blast Off scooped him up, and Vortex sighed, melting onto his shoulder, throwing an arm around his neck. And finally his energy field extended, mildly exotic as always, odd and intense, and brim-full of weariness.

"Lay on me," Vortex said, as Blast Off deposited him on the bed. He reached out, his visor already dim, a yawn caught in his vents.

"Something _is_ wrong," Blast Off muttered, pinging his household management system to kill the lights. Outside the storm still raged, making the shutters rattle.

"Not any more," Vortex replied. He rolled onto his side, scooting as close as he could get without turning to a liquid and melding with Blast Off's armour. Blast off looped an arm around him, and Vortex clamped onto it with a grip stronger than anyone on the edge of recharge should have been able to effect. Not wanting to crush him, Blast Off leaned a little of his weight on the mech. It wasn't enough, and as Vortex began to shiver Blast Off called the drone again, made it bring a foil-lined blanket to lay over the rotary. Vortex liked it warm. He was so strange. 

But hardly unpleasant. And he made happy, soothed sounds as Blast Off stretched and curled around him. His vents were covered, his rotors bent. He couldn't have been comfortable, and yet he was.

Eventually, after his temperature had risen and his grip eased just a little, that comfort bled into his energy field. He was long asleep by then, resting so deeply he didn't even twitch. Blast Off listened to the storm, and let the soft pulse of that strange energy field lull him to sleep.


End file.
